


The Barcelona Affair

by el3anorrigby



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Love, M/M, Romance, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-19 22:43:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5983143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/pseuds/el3anorrigby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya does not know why he had picked Napoleon. He is uncertain as to why his mouth had moved quicker than his brain, does not know why he had said Napoleon’s name.</p><p> </p><p>The one where Waverly sends the boys on a trip with an unexpected outcome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Barcelona Affair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notanightlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notanightlight/gifts).



Illya does not know why he had picked Napoleon.

He is uncertain as to why his mouth had moved quicker than his brain, does not know why he had said Napoleon’s name.

Now Illya knows about the routine program UNCLE make their top agents go through. He had heard it from Gaby. Once in a few months, UNCLE will select a few random agents, fly them to a designated city for a two days one night of getting-to-know-your-colleague-better hoopla, and at the end of it, they will be called up before Waverly with written reports regarding their escapade. The boss will then eventually decide whether the partnership warrants any reevaluation based on his astute assessment.

For the time Illya had worked with UNCLE, he was always assigned with Napoleon and Gaby, and on that three rare occasions, he had been partnered with Agent Mathew Smith, Waverly’s fellow Englishman loaned from the British Intelligence. And when Waverly had told him he was due next for the program and had asked him to choose a fellow agent he had worked prior with for the exercise, Illya had chosen Napoleon.

“I had wanted to pair you up with Agent Smith truthfully, which I still could do since I am your superior but I won’t fuss about it. I had a feeling you would actually choose Agent Teller over anyone else, but I never thought you would pick Solo. Now are you sure about this, Kuryakin?”

What Illya should have said when Waverly had questioned his decision was, _‘Okay, sorry, Sir. I made mistake. I think I will choose Agent Teller, instead’_.

Yes, choosing Gaby would have been a safe choice. A good safe choice. And the most logical thing to do.

But instead, he had kept quiet and only nodded, had stuck with his decision to bring Napoleon, his partner of four months with UNCLE, a cocky and somewhat irritating man, although Illya does not deny his numerous good qualities. So, in the end, the decision was made and Illya will be going to Barcelona with Napoleon.

And that, for certain, is not a safe choice.

Later, when Illya finds his partner in their office, the amused look on Napoleon’s face when he learns Illya had picked him for the program made the Russian feel like he had made a bad decision. The corners of Napoleon’s mouth curl upwards and the crinkles of his eyes grow more evident the wider his smile gets as he listens to Illya’s reasoning as to why he had chosen the American.

“We could use the couple of days off since we had been working a few missions straight. That is why I chose you.”

“Waverly is sending you to Barcelona and you picked me to go with you,” Napoleon says, not a question but a disbelieving statement, as if trying to wrap the idea around his head that Illya had indeed chosen him.

“Yes, that’s what I said.”

Standing on his feet, Napoleon walks towards Illya who is now seated behind his desk and stops when he is in front of him. Placing both hands on his partner’s desk, the American then leans forward, dips his head to look Illya in the eye.

“You sure about this?” he asks and Illya exasperatedly nods.

“Yes, I am sure.”

Napoleon hums.

“Honestly, this is something else, Peril. I thought you’d be sick of me already since we see each other all the time. I mean, yes, we’d been working non-stop and I definitely could use the break but—Really? Are you sure about this? That you want to bring me? You know, you still have time to change your mind, still can go to Waverly and tell him you want to bring Gaby instead?”

Napoleon is raining questions on Illya with that glint in his eyes and he knows he should not be pushing his luck but he just cannot help himself. Illya had done the unthinkable and he feels as if the person in Illya’s chair is not really Illya but some alien who has taken Illya’s shape and now wants to abduct him as well.

“Peril?”

Illya is starting to lose his patience. He takes in a long deep breath, looks up at his partner and his questioning eyes, and with a firm voice, he says, “I am not bringing Gaby. I already told Waverly I will bring you. End of story.”

Napoleon tilts his head. “Are you sure? Because it will be just you and me and nobody else.”

“We have been on lone missions together.”

“This is not the same.”

“Why do you like to make things difficult for me?” Illya hisses, finally snapping.

He is gritting his teeth, his effort to stay calm turning to naught, and Napoleon is unable to contain his delight at watching Illya trip over himself with his perfect justifiable reasons for picking him. The Russian’s face is red and he stammers, and Napoleon sees the tick in his fingers. He should stop his incessant teasing before Illya really changes his mind. In the end, Napoleon takes pity on him and relents.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, Peril, of course, I’ll come with you. I’m more than honoured that you’d picked me. I’m elated!”

Illya rolls his eyes and growls. “Good.”

“This is going to be one hell of a short vacation,” Napoleon says, making Illya reiterate the real reason they are going there.

“Not a vacation, Solo. Still a job.”

“Well at least we don’t need to follow any mark, or get shot at, or do the boring normal spy work. It’s time to relax, Peril.”

Illya only keeps quiet and when Napoleon finally leaves him alone after that, the Russian lets out a breath of relief.

Yes, choosing Napoleon Solo is definitely a dangerous choice indeed.

 

***

 

Early the next morning, they fly into Barcelona.

And at noon, after checking into their respective rooms, Illya meets Napoleon in the hotel lobby.

He sees his partner first, lounging in a plush armchair with a newspaper in one hand and a glass of cocktail in the other. Illya takes that moment to study him before the American could take notice, sees how relaxed he is with that loose fitting shirt on him, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a pair of khaki shorts and slippers. His hair is without any product in it, his curls unruly and strands of hair falling over his forehead and in some ways, Napoleon is looking incredibly young and vulnerable, Illya’s need to suddenly protect him from any harm is exponentially heightened.

This is a far cry from the suave debonair act he always portrays during his missions with Illya, usually in his dapper suits and pristine appearance, and Illya finds he cannot take his eyes away from Napoleon. It must have been a couple of minutes later when Napoleon finally lifts his gaze and a smile spreads on his lips when he sees Illya before him. At the sight of that smile, which Illya has seen numerous times before, a sudden knot forms in his gut, not painful, but a delicious warmth Illya cannot explain, and he realises for the first time he is seeing a different side of Napoleon.

“Looking good in that shirt and shorts getup, Peril,” Napoleon starts, folding the paper in his hand. “Now we do not at all look like two spies at work, do we?”

Illya wants to scoff and say something nasty. He is sure Napoleon is trying to mock him like he always does when it comes to his sense of fashion. But in the end, he finds he had ended up smiling at Napoleon’s remark. “No one would think we are, Cowboy.”

“Looks more like we’re a couple on our honeymoon,” Napoleon quips, cocking his eyebrows.

“You wish,” Illya mutters underneath his breath although the idea suddenly floats in Illya’s brain and he has to shake his head to wipe the image off.

Illya sits down on the opposite chair and takes the folded newspaper from Napoleon’s lap, slightly surprised at his own boldness. Napoleon shows no kind of reaction at all, even though Illya is sure they might have been some form of contact between his fingers and the top of Napoleon’s knee.

“So,” Napoleon says after a while as he takes a last sip of his cocktail before placing the empty glass on the small table beside his chair. “Would you like to do something together or are we going to sit here in this hotel doing nothing? According to Waverly, this trip is supposed to foster a better relationship between us.”

Napoleon certainly talks a lot, Illya thinks, and that detail has to go into Illya’s report.

“Peril?"

If he had taken Gaby instead of Napoleon, Illya would probably suggest they take a walk at the beachfront, which is a couple of minutes walk from their hotel. But this is Napoleon and that idea would seem a little weird, so Illya has to wreak his head, trying to figure what is the best answer to give his partner.

He lifts his eyes from the paper, cursing himself silently for his brilliant idea at picking Napoleon along for the trip. But Napoleon had given him ample time and opportunity to back out from his decision and Illya could not fault him. Indeed, the mess he is in had been his entire fault and no one else’s.

“The whole point of me coming with you was for us to get to know each other better, am I right? If not, our report to Waverly is going to be pretty blank, Peril. So we have to think of something.”

“You are right,” Illya replies, knowing fully well Napoleon is correct and if that is the case, then it would not be all that weird if they were to take that walk down the beach. Or, they could simply sit there and have a good talk about themselves. But both Illya and Napoleon already know what they need to know about the other. In Berlin, when he had to stop Napoleon from getting Gaby over the wall, he had been thoroughly briefed about the American and his history, and Napoleon had told him he had done his reading on Illya as well. So what else is there to know about Napoleon that Illya does not already know?

“Do you know anyone in this city, Cowboy? Any acquaintances?”

Hearing that, again Napoleon smiles, that heart-stopping smile of his, and a bizarre mixture of giddiness starts spreading through Illya’s body at the sight, making him feel out of touch with his normal, serious composed self. That is twice already in a space of a few minutes that he has been dazzled by that smile. Is the air in Barcelona any different than it is in London? As if being there alone with Napoleon is taking over his usual self and turning him into an alter ego Illya does not even know he has.

“No, I don’t know anyone here.”

“No one at all? Not even an ex-lover?”

Napoleon is caught by surprised at Illya’s question. His head almost jerks up, his eyes wide and then he sees the flush in Illya’s cheeks, perhaps embarrassed at his own question, perhaps surprised at himself that he had asked that question to his partner.

“No, no past lovers at all, Peril,” Napoleon answers after getting over that little bit of shock and Illya murmurs a quiet apology.

“Sorry about that question. I did not mean to intrude.”

“No, no. It’s quite all right, Peril. You _are_ trying to get to know me. And I kind of like it. At least, you’re not trying to kill me like always.”

Illya scoffs but then he quirks his lips. “I do not always try to kill you, Cowboy. You like to exaggerate things.”

“Okay, in that sense, you know me so well,” Napoleon chuckles, his eyes examining Illya’s as if trying to dissect the person in front of him just by looking at him.

“You look different here,” Illya says after Napoleon’s eyes wandered away and that immediately returns the American's attention on him.

“Different?”

Again, Illya is surprising Napoleon.

“You look more at ease. Young.” _And you are making me act like a fool somewhat at the moment._

“You know, I was thinking the same thing when I saw you just now,” Napoleon admits, not quite sure where the words, the frankness between them are coming from, but he does not really care because, for a change, the uncontrolled honesty does feel absolutely good.

 

***

 

Napoleon orders lunch with wine for them in Spanish and Illya listens, intrigued, at how effortless and fluid his words and speech are.

“You speak many languages, Solo,” he says as he tucks into his sea food.

“Well, yes. You already know that, Peril.”

“It’s intriguing.” _More like alluring_ , Illya wants to say.

Napoleon takes a drink from his glass of wine. “I can teach you Spanish.”

Illya only hums, not wanting to speak with food in his mouth.

“Maybe, when the time is right, you can teach me,” he says after that.

Napoleon suddenly starts speaking Spanish to Illya, produces sounds and speech that makes Illya acutely aware that Napoleon Solo, when speaking Spanish, is extremely sexy for his own good and definitely dangerous to Illya’s health.

“What did you just say to me?” Illya asks with nonchalance as Napoleon finishes and takes a bite of his lunch.

“Just that I am happy you had picked me instead of Gaby or Agent Smith.”

Illya stares at him for a moment as Napoleon stares back, and then he looks down at his plate, his pulse quickening slightly.

“Of course, Waverly says I could pick one person,” Illya mumbles, clears his throat and push a few prawns around with his fork. “Are you regretting following me?” he adds on.

“What? Of course not. I’d just said I was happy, didn’t I?”

“Yes, yes, you did.”

“You know,” Illya then starts again after a couple of minutes of calm silence, “maybe you really could teach me some Spanish.”

Napoleon stops eating and then Illya starts feeling a little embarrassed and silly for asking. “I mean, just some easy phrases or words. If you do not mind. Maybe I can start speaking Spanish to Gaby, just to surprise her. That was my intention, Cowboy, if you know what I mean—”

“Peril,” Napoleon interrupts, “I would be happy to teach you. But, of course, you cannot use it to chat people up.”

“What? Chat people up?”

“You can’t use the language I teach just to flirt around with people. That’s not something I can condone.”

“I am not trying to flirt with Gaby, or anyone else, if you think that.”

“Are you sure?” asks Napoleon with a little smirk and Illya just shakes his head. “Yes, I am sure.”

“Okay, then. I will teach you but remember, you’re not to use it to your advantage and flirt with people.”

“But it is okay for you to do it?” Illya asks.

“I only do it for work purposes, or with the people that matter,” Napoleon says and then winks and Illya almost chokes on his wine.

The alcohol in his system wants him to get all flirty all of a sudden, but this is Napoleon, his partner, his very male partner, and it is still too early in the day for goodness sake, and even if Illya wants to lean in and grab him by his shirt collar so he could wipe that smile off his face with a quick kiss, he pulls himself together and tells Napoleon he has a deal.

 

***

 

It is summer, meaning the weather is ridiculously hot and sunny, so after lunch Napoleon decides they should spend an hour or two by the hotel pool and Illya agrees. There are only a few families with kids splashing about at the shallow end at the moment, so it was not difficult for them to find empty lounge chairs at the far end of the pool.

Illya suspects that half a bottle of wine over lunch has gone straight to his head because a pleasant tingling feeling has invaded his body. Illya is not sure about Napoleon, but the way the American effortlessly removes his shirt and lays down stretched on the lounge chair does absolutely nothing to calm Illya’s already exhilarated body and nerves. He is wearing sunglasses, which thankfully provides cover as he lets his eyes take in his partner’s well-toned torso and abdomen, his broad shoulders, the stretch of his neck, his thighs, his…

“Peril,” Napoleon suddenly says, tilting his head towards the Russian, his eyes too covered by sunglasses and Illya groans inwardly. He is definitely going to hell for this.

“Yes, Cowboy?”

“Are you missing Gaby?”

Illya is not sure where Napoleon is going with that question. In truth, he does miss Gaby because they are always together all the time so he simply nods without thinking. “Yes. I do miss her.”

Napoleon looks away and Illya thinks he sees a little change of demeanour in his partner upon him hearing his answer. Illya, in turn, says nothing, only keeps his head turned in Napoleon’s direction but with those glasses on him, it is impossible for Illya to gauge what Napoleon is thinking. Illya wants to ask him what is on his mind, but the frankness of earlier, when his mouth just flows with words he never thought he could say to Napoleon, just won’t come out.

“Months ago, we had tried to kill each other to get some stupid disc for our countries and now, here we are, lying on two lounge chairs in a very nice hotel without a care in the world at the expense of some organisation that trusts us too much for their own good.”

Illya lowers down his sunglasses and fixes Napoleon with an intense gaze.

“You ever think of running away?” he asks.

What Napoleon had said, about UNCLE trusting them too much, alarms Illya a little. He always thought Napoleon is contented. Perhaps, that is not what it seems.

“No, I don’t think of that, Peril. I just—sometimes I get to thinking how different my life would be if I had gone through with Sanders’ orders.”

“You mean if you had shot me.”

Napoleon nods. “Yes, that. But every time I think about it, I know I would not have done it.”

Straying his eyes from Napoleon for a moment, looking up at the palm trees swaying in the light breeze instead, Illya then fixes his friend another question. “We never talked about that. About what we did, after we left Rome. Do you regret it, Cowboy?”

“No, of course not. My leash now is much better. Remember? Not so short man holding on to my balls?”

Illya laughs, really laughs, and Napoleon’s heart just swells with pride knowing he had caused that laughter and from the corner of his eyes, he sees Illya looking at him with a look Napoleon cannot read but when Illya thinks Napoleon’s eyes are on him, he pretends to be fascinated by the palm trees instead. Napoleon chuckles and then he gets serious once again.

“You had saved me, Peril. People like you, are meant to save people like me.”

Illya still can’t see Napoleon’s eyes behind that damn sunglasses and what he had said almost stops Illya’s heart. It is some confession coming from Napoleon, someone who is proud of his American ways and to say that to a fellow spy, an ex-KGB agent who was his sworn enemy no less, is certainly something else.

“Cowboy?” Illya says after a while.

“Yes?”

“Thank you again, for returning my father’s watch. I cannot say that enough.”

Napoleon says nothing, only nods.

“It’s the one treasure that I have from my father. You know this. You could have chosen not to. And yet, you returned it to me. For that, I’ll always be eternally grateful to you.”

“Well, you owe me something for that in which I have not decided yet what I want,” Napoleon says with a lopsided grin and then Illya smiles.

“Let me know what you want, Cowboy.”

“Well maybe what I want, you can’t really give me, Peril.”

“Maybe, maybe not. But you just need to ask me and we shall see.”

Illya really cannot believe the words that are coming out of his mouth at the moment, even Napoleon’s, and he decides to blame the wine over lunch. Because there is no way he would be saying things like that to Napoleon in normal circumstances. Never. And he is uncertain whether he is supposed to read something into what Napoleon had said, but Illya suspects, perhaps, he had not meant anything by it, perhaps he had read into it too much. Or perhaps, Illya just have to wait and see if there is indeed something more than what is currently brewing between them.

And the day is only halfway through.

 

***

 

An hour or so roasting in the sun is enough so they both disappear for a nap into their respective rooms, in which Illya had used the time lying on his bed, thinking what the hell was happening to him and his senses, before joining together again with Napoleon for a walk along the shoreline. Yes, that idea Illya had earlier is now happening. And as they stride side by side on that beach, with the sun setting behind them, it does not seem weird at all. In fact, it seems perfectly normal and natural.

Illya’s feet pound on the soft sand and he marvels again, wonders how a couple of hours of flight time from where they had started off can transport them to a completely different climate, different scenery and a different state of mind. He almost forgets they are actually a couple of spies working for an international organisation, and it is kind of nice not getting shot at or trying to run from baddies once in a while. He does not have to fear for Napoleon’s safety, or worry about him bleeding to death in their hotel room, which had happened once and had the scared the living daylights out of him. No matter how infuriating Napoleon is, no matter how he frustrates him with his antics, he has become too fond of him and Illya could never entertain the idea of losing him, of him dying. Not after what they had been through together. No, Illya cannot fathom the thought and it is something Illya never wants to happen.

Now, here, in that Spanish city, as he glances at Napoleon beside him, his mouth moving, talking like he always does, Illya feels he has never been more relaxed and so a tiny part of him wishes he does not have to return to London tomorrow. But for the time being, he decides he will enjoy this moment, whatever this is, and later, after showering and getting dressed, he meets Napoleon again for dinner at the hotel’s restaurant.

“Hmm, shall we have your first lesson?” Napoleon smiles mischievously as Illya sits down at their corner table.

“What do you mean?”

Illya’s questioning look is too adorable for Napoleon to ignore. But then he tries to remain serious.

“Your first Spanish lesson would be ordering for us, Peril,” Napoleon says as he hands Illya the menu.

“What? Oh no, that is bad idea,” Illya argues, handing the menu back to the American. “Besides, I think the waiters here speak English so there is no need to do that.”

“Of course, they do. But you wanted to learn and this is a good place to start.”

“Solo,” Illya says, almost like a plead, but then Napoleon just shakes his head at the Russian and pushes the menu back over to Illya.

“I’ll help you, Illya. Just order the wine. I’ll tell you what to say.”

Illya realises Napoleon had called him Illya for the first time since their trip started, which makes him oddly giddy, not that he hasn’t called him Illya before, but the way the L’s roll off his tongue suddenly sounded so erotic to his ears, somehow, so Illya decides not to argue any further.

Illya then takes a look at the wine list and thankfully spots a brand he thinks he recognises. When he leans across the table to show Napoleon and asks for his opinion, the American simply nods, grabs his wrist on the table gently, leans forward towards him and whispers, “Now just say _Una botella de Montecillo Gran Reserva, por favor._ ”

And Napoleon’s words burn Illya’s ear, just like his fingers burn the skin on his wrist and as he leans back in his chair there is something indefinable in Napoleon’s magnetic blue eyes.   Illya tries to tamp down the beating of his heart as he mulls the words around his mouth for a moment, trying to wrap his tongue around the R’s and feel uncharacteristically nervous when the waiter approaches. But looking at Napoleon, Illya licks his lips involuntarily, and prompted by his tiny nod, he then turns to the waiter and orders the wine with the words Napoleon had given him.

Apparently what Illya had said made sense to the waiter because he starts to scribble down the order and leaves and a huge smile spreads across Napoleon’s face.

“Ah, _eres perfecto_ ,” he says, instead of _‘fue perfecto’_ , before leaning closer again towards Illya, eyes transfixed on the Russian, and for a split second Illya thinks he is going to kiss him.

Casting his eyes down quickly on the table, a blush creeps on Illya’s cheeks, and mutters, “Glad that came out well.”

Napoleon continues grinning like a proud teacher as he leans back again. “Ah Illya, you are my star pupil.”

“Shut up, Solo.”

As Napoleon continues to grin at Illya from across the table, Illya’s heart swells in his chest and an all-consuming feeling spreads to his arms and legs. And if he does not know better, he could swear he is having a heart-attack of sorts but since he knows that is not the case, Illya decides not to analyse the sensation any further.

 

***

 

After dinner and dessert, they are well on their way to finishing their third shared bottle of wine.

Idly glancing at his father’s watch, letting his fingers linger around the strap, Illya realises they have been sitting at the table for hours, but Napoleon’s company has been perfect so Illya has not paid any attention to the time.

They have been talking about childhoods, families, acquaintances, things they would not normally talk about. Napoleon mentioned about his mother and how he is her favourite son and Napoleon smiles listening to Illya speak fondly of his own mother and the story of how his father had given Illya his watch. Surprisingly, they mentioned little of their individual espionage life before they had met each other, and even if Illya is curious about it, especially of Napoleon’s life during the war, he figures there will be times in the future where he will get to ask Napoleon about it.

He somehow wishes, as he sits there with Napoleon, that he could somehow leave the espionage world behind him, leave the world that he knows too well forever, just so he could start anew and spend the rest of his life with this man before him.

Illya knows those are dangerous thoughts to be thinking of but he cannot help himself. He has fallen into deep in such a short period of time. Or maybe being there just brings out what he has felt all along for Napoleon but had failed to realise. 

“It’s a shame we’ve to go back tomorrow,” Napoleon says, breaking Illya’s thoughts, as he twirls the wine glass in his hands, a warm flush painting his cheeks.

“Yes, it is too bad,” Illya answers. His head is lolling slightly, the wine clearly doing a number on him as well. “I wish we could stay here longer. Don’t really want to go back to London.”

Napoleon raises an eyebrow.

“But what about Gaby. You can’t leave her alone all by herself.”

Illya does not respond to that at first but simply continues looking at Napoleon intently.

“You think there is something going on between me and Chop Shop Girl?” he eventually says.

“Isn’t there?” Napoleon asks. For the first time that night, the American looks genuinely serious. He waits for Illya’s answer and then the Russian shakes his head.

“Of course not, Cowboy. Why would you think that?”

“Well, you guys have danced around each other for months and you look at her like she’s the most precious thing in the world. And Gaby, no doubt, is a very beautiful woman. So, it’s only natural for me to think that.”

“You think wrong, Cowboy.”

“Really? I’ve been wrong?”

“Yes.”

Napoleon nods slowly, absorbing what Illya had said, studying him intently like he is trying to hear something else Illya is not saying.

“Okay, but that’s about the only wrong thing I have about you. Right? All the other stuff you’ve told me tonight. They are the truth?”

Illya’s lips twitch. “Si.”

“Hey, you speak Spanish!”

“Well, it is the easiest Spanish word, and I have the best teacher,” Illya says and smiles.

“That’s because you bring out the best in me.”

When Napoleon leans in again, Illya swallows involuntarily, the taste of the wine clinging to his tongue as it moves around his mouth anxiously. He has no words to respond, so instead he rests his head against his own hand. After a moment, he sighs and mutters, “I’m glad I do that.”

“You do a lot to me, Peril. God only knows.”

It is truly scaring Illya at the rate how honest they are being with each other.

“You never told me this.”

“No. Didn’t think it would matter.”

“But it matters now, does it not?” Illya asks quietly.

Napoleon does not answer his question, only hums. In the dark light of the restaurant, Illya swears he could see Napoleon’s pupils dilate, the iris stretched into blue rims around it.

“I’m glad I asked you to come, Cowboy,” Illya continues and sighs again, not quite sure what to do with himself, suddenly delectably ill at ease in his own skin.

A smile plays on Napoleon’s lips, his hand coming up to stroke his lightly stubbled jaw gently. “I am too.”

A few moments of exchanged glances and contented stares, a charged silence soon pass before them until…

“Illya,” Napoleon murmurs. “Maybe we should adjourn to our rooms? It’s getting late.”

 _There is that Illya again_ , the Russian thinks before he nods and slowly gets up and join Napoleon at the elevators on the way up to their rooms.

 

***

 

Illya shuffles his feet in the corridor next to his room door, desperate for the evening not to end but he knows it has to. He gets it that he is not supposed to be having those feelings for Napoleon, he should not even entertain the idea because things will get incredibly complicated if it ever comes out in the open. But being there with Napoleon has changed things, or has made Illya see the one thing he has always wanted, and if he wants to blame anyone for the predicament he is in, then he is going to blame Waverly.

“Will you be okay in the morning?” Napoleon asks, his eyes drooping slightly. “That third bottle we had, it might have been a mistake?”

“No mistake,” Illya smiles.

With his self-preservation and inhibitions washed down well before the final glass of that third bottle, Illya leans against the wall. “Dinner was very good, yes?”

“Yes, it was good,” Napoleon answers, smiles again and Illya realises he has never seen the American smile so much in the course of one evening before. And Illya, he is falling in love with that smile and he wants to say it out loud, God, he really wants to say it.

“I’m glad dinner was good,” Napoleon mutters, repeats himself, before moving towards his partner gingerly.

Illya’s eyes remain transfixed on him as he inches closer and his breathing quickens, his heart starts to pound madly in his chest.

“Okay, final lesson of the night, Peril,” Napoleon says, agonisingly close, their noses almost touching, their breaths definitely mingling.

Illya swallows empty with his feet remain rooted to the carpeted floor. “What is it, Cowboy?”

“To speak Spanish, you have to be a little bit Spanish as well,” Napoleon whispers against Illya’s cheek.

“An American teaching a Russian how to become Spanish. How apt,” Illya mutters and Napoleon just laughs and Illya shivers because it had sounded incredibly sensuous.

“Where did you learn this?” Illya then asks despite himself.

“Does it matter?” Napoleon says.

“Some Spanish lover taught you this?”

“Why Illya, you’re jealous,” the American teases and Illya cannot deny the fact that he is, the idea of someone else being with Napoleon, having the privilege to hold Napoleon, to kiss him, to do all those things Illya wants to do to him certainly does not sit well with the Russian.

“Maybe, I am, just a little,” he eventually says which is a big fat lie and Napoleon just hums to that.

Illya is the taller of the two, but somehow his body has slid down a little against the wall bringing him on eye level with Napoleon and he is crowding on Illya like a predator and Illya has to hold his breath.

“So, to say good night, you need to say _buenas noches_ ,” the words drip from Napoleon’s lips and all of Illya’s earlier argument is forgotten. “Say it, Illya—”

Suddenly there is no air left in Illya’s lungs, his heart raging in his chest and all he could manage is a strained whisper, his lips all but touching Napoleon’s ear. “ _Buenas—noches_ , Napoleon.”

Hearing that so close to his ear, Napoleon gasps slightly, his body radiating heat Illya can feel it all the way to his bones.

“And then, after saying that—you must—place a kiss—on each cheek—just like the Spanish does.”

Illya’s breath hitches at Napoleon’s accentuated words. He is losing his mind. When Napoleon tries to lean in again, Illya flips them around with amazing speed so Napoleon is the one now being pressed up against the wall with Illya’s arms braced on either side of the American’s head.

“Illya?” Napoleon says, eyes questioning, but Illya only shakes his head, mutters, “Tell me if I am doing this wrong.”

Then slowly, excruciatingly, Illya’s moist lips descends against Napoleon’s cheek, the touch scorching his skin and making the pit of Napoleon’s stomach churn. His lips slightly ajar, Napoleon swears he can feel the tip of Illya’s tongue on his cheek.

“Fuck—”

The Russian pulls back slightly and let their noses brush against each other as he moves to kiss Napoleon’s other cheek. Again, the touch is agonising, his breath coming in short gasps and Napoleon can’t fight the quiet moan at the back of his throat when he now definitely feels Illya’s tongue tasting his flushed skin.

“Did I do it correct?” Illya asks, voice husky, deep, rumbling, something Napoleon has never heard before from his partner and his knees grow weak and Illya has to grasp his arms to hold him upright.

“God, you’re going to be the death of me, Illya.”

Illya’s eyes are closed but he instinctively finds Napoleon’s skin again as he presses his lips desperately against the coarse surface, his stubble creating delicious friction against Illya’s lips, bringing an indescribable sensation he has never felt before. His body then rises up. It rises up and touches Napoleon’s, the contact electric and his chest aches to press further against him. With his lips still on Napoleon’s cheek, his breath hot on his skin, the feeling of Napoleon’s lips, his heart, his hips…

Good God, never has Illya wanted anyone more than Napoleon right at that moment and as he stops to look into his eyes, only half-opened hidden behind those lashes, with lust and want, Illya thinks he has never felt so thoroughly aroused in his entire life.

“Napoleon,” Illya’s voice is barely a whisper and Napoleon recognises his name from the movement of his mouth, only a fraction away from his own. And the sweet, sweet pressure of Illya’s hips against his is driving all thought and reason away from Napoleon’s mind.

“You have—” Illya sighs, pauses, then leans in to whisper in his ear, “to tell me to stop, Cowboy.”

His groin is on fire, the tiny movements of their bodies bringing agonising pleasure to his length.

“I—”

Napoleon tries to speak, tries to reason out, but fails, his lips parched from his quickened breathing so he licks his lips to moisten them. And then Illya’s tongue—God almighty his tongue, brushes against his own, tasting his saliva where his own tongue had just been.

Napoleon relinquishes any remnants of resistance because there is no energy, no will left in his body to fight something so overpowering.

“I can’t—” Napoleon gasps, “I want you too fucking much.”

Illya celebrates Napoleon’s admission by capturing his lips finally in a searing kiss, the American’s mouth opening instantly to let Illya’s tongue twist and slide and crash against his fervidly, his fingers locked in his hair tight. In no time at all, impassioned moans fill the corridor, leaving Illya to fish out his room key from his pocket with shaky fingers somehow and they both stumble inside and end up on his bed tangled up in half-opened shirts and burning limbs.

“Cowboy,” Illya breathes as he sits up and visibly tries to compose himself, his skin flushed with want, his eyes alight with arousal. “I never thought you would want this.”

Napoleon brings a finger to Illya’s lips.

“All these months, Illya, I’ve had this mad pull towards you, even from the beginning and I didn’t know what it was, or why. You drive me fucking crazy.”

His fingers hover on the buttons of Illya’s shirt. “And I’m still not sure what this is and we must be fucking certifiable to do this, but I know I want this. I want you.”

Illya runs his fingers across his partner’s cheek. “You are sure?”

“Remember I’d said that what I want, you might not be able to give me?” Napoleon asks and Illya nods. “Yes.”

“Well I want this,” Napoleon murmurs. “Can you give me this, Illya?”

“Cowboy, this is—I don’t know what this is but I’ve never wanted anyone so badly in my life.”

“God, Illya, _please_ ,” Napoleon pleads as Illya pushes him down on the bed gently and lies down on top of him.

“You talk too much.”

Then without warning, Illya claims Napoleon’s mouth, all fire and passion, and pulls off his half-opened shirt and slide his lips hungrily against the torso he had been staring at earlier by the pool. He nips and licks, sucks and bites, hands hard on Napoleon’s hips, and the taste of Napoleon’s skin, as good as, if not better than Illya had imagined.

While Illya is worshipping his body, Napoleon’s own hands move impatiently across the waist of Illya’s pants, manages to slide the zipper open and slide one hand inside. And at the contact of skin against skin, Illya groans, loudly, pressing hard against Napoleon’s hand, his palm curving perfectly against his aching length. Napoleon’s other hand fumbles with Illya’s shirt but, in the end, Illya decides to help him by ripping the garment off himself.

Napoleon laughs lightly, the sound bouncing off the walls to mix with Illya’s husky groans as he feels his cock hardening even further in Napoleon’s talented hand, if humanly possible.

But through the haze in his brain, Illya knows there is something else he is desperate to do, something that has been like his secret desire at the back of his mind ever since he had first seen Napoleon undress, the first time he had seen his naked skin ages ago. So, reluctantly, with much self-control, he wriggles away from Napoleon’s eager hand and flips a puzzled looking Napoleon on his stomach on the bed.

“Illya, what—what are you doing?” Napoleon gasps.

As Napoleon turns his head to look at his partner from the corner of his eye, Illya leans down and places a fleeting kiss on his neck, on his shoulder, and then murmurs in his ear, “There is something I need to do. And if I don’t get to do anything else, this will be enough for me.”

Napoleon merely nods silently, lets his head fall on the bed and closes his eyes while Illya moves to sit on the backs of his thighs. And as he stares at the strong, muscular, naked back in front of his eyes, Illya’s lungs feel like caving in because he never thought he would have the chance to do this.

Without waiting any further, he leans down and presses his lips to the small of Napoleon’s back, and he kisses him there, tastes and licks his skin and feels he has never found a more perfect place than that spot.

Napoleon’s hips press down on the bed at the contact, at the same time arching his back slightly, and Illya sees him biting his lower lip but as he lifts himself from his body, Napoleon opens his eyes and looks at Illya with something that warms the Russian’s heart.

“You all right, Cowboy?”

“Yes, but what was that kiss for exactly?” Napoleon chokes out a shaky moan.

There is a puzzled look on his face and Illya cannot help looking at that face, he just cannot help it, and he straight away flips him on his back again before kissing him hard for looking so adorably puzzled.

“You are—you—are beautiful. l have, no words, Cowboy for you. For what this is. After today, this trip, I do not know what to call this between us anymore.”

Napoleon exhales sharply, his face crumbling to a mixture of love and sadness and desire as he clings to Illya desperately, his arms wrapping around Illya’s torso, kisses his jaw and neck and then his cheek. He hides his face at the crook of Illya’s neck but continues to run his fingertips lightly up and down Illya’s back before letting out a quiet sigh.

“You know, Waverly is going to wonder about us when we get back. He’ll see the difference and will think, now that trip has definitely done those boys good. Or it has wrecked them.”

Illya hums. “Unfortunately, we owe him a report on each other.”

Napoleon’s breathless laugh against his neck after that sends a shiver down Illya’s spine and he smiles although a little worried at their imminent change of dynamics. He holds Napoleon closer.

“What shall we tell him in our report? That I kissed the small of your back?”

Napoleon’s chest vibrates against Illya’s as he chuckles. “If you want to write that, I have no objections whatsoever.”

Illya presses a kiss to Napoleon’s forehead, fingers running through his hair, studies his face and then he feels it in him, that overwhelming feeling of never wanting to let go of this man in his hold, that feeling that feels a lot like…no, Illya does not want to say it, fearing it is too soon, too fast. And although Illya suspects that is what it is, he is prepared to wait, to hold back a little while longer and he will use what is left of that night to reaffirm what he feels, uses that night to explore Napoleon’s body, to discover the unparalleled pleasure and release from touches and places he had never thought of before.

 

***

 

“Illya, Waverly says he is scrapping the program you and Napoleon had attended. Says yours is the last one he is going to sanction.”

Illya leans back in his chair, stops writing the report on his desk and looks at Gaby. “He seems angry?”

Gaby only shrugs.

“Not really. Although he did ask me one silly question which totally floored me. He wants to know what does a small of one person’s back taste like? How the hell would I know?”

And Illya just gives a confused looking Gaby a huge grin.

Perhaps they had gone overboard with their report but Napoleon had insisted Illya had put in that little detail and although they had tweaked their words, to make their trip sound innocent enough, Illya cannot imagine the look on Waverly’s face when he had read it.

A day after returning from Barcelona, Illya had stumbled to work early but deliriously happy and contented, leaving his partner of four months who was still on leave with a heavy heart, his new God-only-knows-what laying contently between his sheets in his apartment’s bedroom.

And as he thinks about their trip again, Illya tries to fight the grin continuously rising on his lips. Because, now, he definitely knows why he had picked Napoleon to come with him.

Because it has _always_ been him. Ever since the start. And he cannot wait to continue his journey with Napoleon.

Feeling him inside his mind, his body, his soul. Over and over.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) A not too sappy (I hope), sort of romantic (I think) story for Valentine's Day. Hope you like it. :)  
> 2) Used google to translate the Spanish words. Apologies for any mistakes, they are mine. :P  
> 3) Please don't mind me writing too many fics? I probably will write another one. This pairing is something else, fell in love with it too hard, too fast! Still really love the boys even after many months. Thanks, everyone :)
> 
> Fue perfecto - that was perfect  
> eres perfecto - you are perfect  
> buenas noches - good night


End file.
